


summer pornathon 1

by orphan_account



Series: Summer Pornathon '13 [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Double Penetration, M/M, Necrophilia, Suicide, Summer Pornathon 2013
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 20:25:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1009702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Merlin scoured the surface of the earth (decades, centuries, a millenium) and didn’t find him, he began looking underground. (Immortal!Merlin; reincarnated!Arthur)</p><p><b>Kink(s)</b>: double penetration, necrophilia<br/><b>Pairing(s):</b> Merlin/Arthur<br/><b>Warning(s):</b> necrophilia (with a purpose lol?); suicide</p>
            </blockquote>





	summer pornathon 1

**Author's Note:**

> So before the shit storm that happened in summer happened, I participated in the summer pornathon '13 and wrote fics til week 4; after that shit happened and I couldn't, anymore. Anyway, this has the kinks double penetration and necrophilia. Wooooot. Have fun.
> 
>  **Kink(s)** : double penetration, necrophilia  
>  **Pairing(s):** Merlin/Arthur  
>  **Warning(s):** necrophilia (with a purpose lol?); suicide

_Necrophiliac love: the only sort that is pure._ —Wittkop, The Necrophiliac

 

“Another necrophilic abuse discovered! Grave Robber Special!”

The headline claims to reveal more than the article actually does (“…abuse relates largely to another group of corpses of young- to middle-aged men”) but it’s pathetic they don’t have more by now, really, two years and three months into it. Merlin can fill them in: the men and boys were all blond and blue-eyed in life, with either a reputation for arrogance or professional athleticism.

“ _Inhumane_ crime series,” he reads, snorts, tossing the paper into a garbage bin, revolted. Precisely this is why it won’t work; he’s got to be extra careful they won’t catch him. Were would he be if they did, he, the _oh_ so vile monster?

“Inhumane,” he mutters, making his way home, the anger dissipating with each step (excitement growing, hot and fast). He sheds his clothes, stepping into the naturally cool basement, and gives himself to his latest companion. “Inhumane,” he repeats, softer, as he lies on the stretcher to wrap his limbs around the icy calmness of Joseph’s, thumbing along Joseph’s dry, pale lips.

No magic, tonight. Just the comfort of a handsome man who could’ve been him but isn’t. No cock, mouth or fingers, either. Merlin’s just indulgent, tonight, to the both of them.

He tries to still the weltschmerz each of his breaths are bleeding by being _inhumane_ , giving love and comfort to whom the humane ones robbed of his worth with the loss of his life, tossing him away like garbage. 

-

After Merlin scoured the surface of the earth (decades, centuries, a millenium) and didn’t find him, he began looking underground, because:

_“You’ll be there, should I need you.”_

_“I will?”_

_“You will.”_

Words so old, and Merlin swore to make them true. He remembers too much to sleep well, too little to recognise.

That’s okay, though. He feels he’ll know the moment when it’s there.

-

And there it is at last, the eighth after Joseph. It feels unreal when it happens, Merlin’s waited so long.

He brims with barely restrained anticipation stirring low and potent in his belly as he slides his hands up the calves, soft with the loss of muscle through begun decay—soft, supple to knead between his fingers, doughy. This one’s promising. Merlin’s blood sings with it as his eyes trace the unique jaw bone: strong and square, yet strangely soft, rounded. He’s promising. Special. Special. His hands, big and capable, lie with the palms upturned, the left wrist showing the bandage of a successfully slit wrist.

 _Suicide_ , Merlin remembers hearing at the funeral, _and a letter proclaiming he needed to find someone._

Death is as attached to this man as Merlin becomes as he erratically begins filling the supple, virgin hole between those plump cheeks: death has made him even more beautiful, angelic, like a Greek statue of wax dipped in blue-grey ash, held over fire, beginning to melt as the eyes and cheeks sink.

Merlin wants to give this man everything: wants to make him full he won’t bloat from decomposition but Merlin himself, and he lets his eyelids flutter close, holding onto those still, still legs—watches the static body being jostled, head banging back against the stretcher with the delicious sound of utter passivity, an irregular _thump, thump, thump._

Merlin wants to make him so full and he does: magic bleeds in tears from his lids and spills in endearments from his mouth, and there’s a second cock like his own prodding at the man’s flesh, stretching it wide and obscene. The further it gapes open the more it exudes of that sour milk-rotten flesh odour that incenses Merlin’s guts like wildfire. Merlin lets his magic fuck furiously inside while he snaps his hips hard, fast, deep, spearing him with the heat of his two cocks, seeking to suffuse the ice-insides with a sliver of life.

The thudding grows louder, the man’s head snapping sickly back and forth like a doll’s, hole stretching impossibly around Merlin, accommodating, loving. The pleasure of it burns white behind Merlin’s eyes—his hips tilt—stutter—shove—halt—

And when he spills and gives his life inside, Merlin knows it’s _him_ : the head snaps up suddenly, a hoarse voice saying, “I’ve found you,” and as the man’s eyes snap open, they trap Merlin in a sky of blue. 

“Arthur,” he breathes, remembering at last.


End file.
